


Broken Ornaments

by Professional_Creeper



Series: Holiday Bingo 2020 [5]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Angst, Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Holiday Vignettes, Ice Skating, Injury Recovery, M/M, One Shot, Other, Past Child Abuse, Post-Canon, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27581065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper
Summary: Chilton's first Christmas after being burned. Trauma and a box of old ornaments.For @thatesqcrush’s Holiday Bingo on Tumblr
Relationships: Dr. Frederick Chilton/Reader
Series: Holiday Bingo 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2093550
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	1. Broken Ornaments

Dr. Chilton never had a surgeon’s hands—in all your time together he’d never admitted it to you, but you heard a rumor that he switched to psychiatry in disgrace after a patient died on the table. It didn’t surprise you. For all his arrogant bluster, you knew your Frederick was a soft, nervous creature deep down. His hands probably used to tremble at the sight of blood.

Now his hands trembled all the time without needing a reason. After surviving severe burns, they didn’t work the way they used to.

His mother scolded him for nearly dropping an old box of Christmas decorations when she’d handed it to him two days ago—a gift for his home, to carry on the tradition now that she was getting too old.

Tradition. You wondered what that meant for the Chiltons. 

Frederick’s relationship with his family was strained, and he rarely told you anything about them. He was uncharacteristically quiet on the drive home.

Festive music and cinnamon filled the cavernous halls of the ostentatious mansion you shared, but Frederick was sullen as he took delicate red and white ornaments out of the box and arranged them on the tree. It was a slow process with scarred skin wrapping his fingers too tightly for them to move quite right, and with the last joint amputated off several of them. Considering he had been doused in gasoline and left to burn, it was lucky he was alive at all, much less able to walk and decorate trees by the very next Christmas, but it was still frustrating for him to be trapped in a body that didn’t cooperate.

He swore as an antique glass bauble shattered on the floor, spraying its red guts in a spatter-pattern over the hardwood.

“That’s OK, let me get it!” you said, not wanting him to attempt cleaning up sharp shards himself. At least you were both wearing shoes. A long, agonizing sigh rattled from Frederick’s lungs.

“These belonged to my grandfather.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry. Maybe we can glue it back together.”

He shook his head.

“Really—I’ve got dexterous hands and I’m good at puzzles. I can fix it.”

“No. He was a fucking bastard. Groped me when I five years old then gave me candy to shut me up. I hate these ornaments.”

You looked at the one in your hand, and back at Frederick. You let it fall, and it exploded into glitter.

He stared back at you in stunned silence, as if he had never considered that one could simply do that. He picked up another one and dropped it.

One by one, you took turns plucking ornaments off the tree like apples and smashing them on the ground, crunching them under your shoes. It would hurt later, when, fingers bleeding, you had to pick up the pieces. But right now, turning each cursed memory into festive dust on the ground was becoming a new favorite holiday tradition.


	2. Skating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another one for Thatesqcrush's holiday bingo. Figured I'd add it as another chapter in a series of vignettes

Though he was never particularly athletic, Frederick Chilton used to be quite graceful on the ice. Being a member of society’s upper-crust meant a well-rounded education that included horseback riding, golf, alpine skiing, ballroom dancing… and figure skating.

It wasn’t the same anymore.

The crowd of people made him nervous, seeming to close in around him, staring at his face. Which was impossible. He had only agreed to take you skating because he could cover up with a hat and a scarf wrapped around his teeth. His compression mask resembled a ski mask, so he didn’t look like a tragic burn victim—he just looked bundled up.

But their eyes stared anyway, as he re-learned how to skate on shaking legs.

He was afraid of falling, now. After all the pain he’d endured, what was a little wipeout? But the idea of breaking a wrist and ending up back in a hospital bed was too terrifying to bear, and he felt his throat burning at the prospect, muscles stiffening under scarred skin that was already too stiff.

You were smiling. Having fun. It was good to see laughter in your eyes again. It had been such a hard year. So he endured. He tried to have fun, too, skating after you.

The cold air hurt his teeth as he picked up speed. Even with the scarf wrapped over his mouth, it felt like biting into frozen ice cream, and his gums were screaming.

He couldn’t see out of his left eye. Could barely hear out of his left ear.

People were staring.

His balance was off. His body was too weak.

Everyone was staring.

You appeared on his right—the side you knew to approach from—and took his gloved hand. Your eyes met his, and he could tell you knew.

“You OK?”

You knew something was wrong. Your smile was gone, and his heart ached.

“Can we go home, please?” he whispered.

“Of course.”

You held his hand as you led him off the ice, and as you stumbled out onto solid ground again—waddling on the blades instead of gliding—you turned around, pulled his scarf down just a little, and kissed him. Your lips were so warm, so soft. He let out an appreciative moan. Then you pulled the scarf back up before anyone could see what was underneath, and brought him home.

Skating sounded like a pleasant way to spend New Year’s Day, but quiet reflecting over hot cocoa and cheesy holiday movies ended up being a better tradition. For now.

He reclined on the couch, running his fingers through your hair. Your head was resting in his lap comfortably. Everyone was talking about resolutions—things to look forward to in the coming year. But he could only look back at everything he had lost.

The Red Dragon biting and burning him was only the latest horror in a long line.

“I have lost my kidney, several feet of intestine, my left eye, my hearing, a half dozen teeth, my skin, my lips… my ability to eat meat and reach my own back… any hope of peaceful sleep. So much has been taken from me since I began working with Jack Crawford. I wish I could take the last four years back.”

“…You have me?” you smiled, hopefully.

One good thing _had_ happened to him since he started helping the FBI. One thing that stuck with him that wasn’t a brutal maiming.

He huffed a soft laugh. “I cannot say you are worth it, my dear. But I am glad to have you.”

If he had the option of trading you for his health… to be lonely, but to have his hair back, his skin, his ability not to leave drool all over his pillow every night… would he take it? He gripped your hand, and your thumb automatically began rubbing circles over the back of his hand.

He wouldn’t dare make that trade, even if it were possible. He couldn’t give you up. So maybe he was wrong. You were worth it, after all.


End file.
